


His Knight in Shining Sunglasses

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: "Daring" Rescue, Chains, Danger of discovery, Desperation, French Revolution, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Prison, and then some frottage while they're running away, forced silence (briefly), its really just a nice blowjob, promptfill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-25 19:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20030950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Prompt:Aziraphale is being all "oh please rescue me" in the French prison... but instead of miracling the chains away Crowley is like "ask me nicely." So Aziraphale gives him a nice blowjob.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Good Omens kink meme.

“So all this is your demonic work?”

Aziraphale couldn’t believe it. Sure, they hadn’t seen each other in a few years – or had it been a decade already? A century? No, it couldn’t have been a century, could it? – and he wasn’t exactly keeping tabs on his personal nemesis when they weren’t even operating in the same country, no matter how he sometimes wanted to. But that was no excuse for _anyone_ to fly off the handle like that! Cutting off people’s heads, for God’s sake!

To his relief, Crowley immediately corrected him. “No! The humans thought it up themselves, nothing to do with me.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “Good.”

He really was glad this wasn’t Crowley’s doing. Mainly because a rather large part of him really wanted to go back to London right now, and if even the slightest bit of this revolution had been Hell-made, he would have had to stay. Or face the consequences once Upstairs got wind of it, but he’d just received his strongly-worded note for the decade – next time, they wouldn’t be so lenient. There might be performance reviews. Aziraphale winced.

He shoved the unpleasant thought away and focused on Crowley, who was still contemplating him wordlessly. And probably waiting for Aziraphale to finish whatever train of thought he was following right now.

The angel sighed. “Could you maybe?”

Crowley raised a brow. It looked uncanny, behind his glasses. They seemed darker than usual, glossy and impenetrable. “Could I what?”

Aziraphale shifted from one foot to the other, making the chain jingle and scratch on the dirty stone floor. “Well?”

“Out with it, angel.”

Aziraphale held up his wrists. “The shackles?”

“Oh, _those_!” Crowley’s lips curled. “Sure.”

He leaned back into his snug little niche and did… nothing.

Aziraphale waited expectantly, but all he got was another raised brow. “Crowley?”

“I was just thinking…,” he tilted his head against the wall, squishing the meticulously groomed curls. It wouldn’t matter because they wouldn’t dare to get wet or dirty, but it still looked a little funny. A little less coiffed. And Aziraphale had always secretly preferred the demon’s wild curls and braids – there was just too much fire in Crowley for any of the carefully tamed human hairstyles to fit his personality. “Aren’t you supposed to be an angel?”

Aziraphale frowned, affronted. “I _am_ an angel. Where are you going with this?”

The demon lifted his shoulders, baring his palms in a gesture of an innocence he certainly didn’t possess. “Angels are supposed to be nice. You didn’t even say ‘please’. Or ‘thank you’, come to think of it.”

The angel could almost not believe what he was hearing. From Crowley, no less. “You want me to beg?”, he asked, eyes widening in… what was it, exactly? Outrage? Humiliation? Or cold, hard disappointment?

Crowley shook his head, relieving Aziraphale of his dreadful thoughts for the second time that night. “Nah, I just want you to ask nicely if you want something, angel.”

Aziraphale suppressed the urge to sigh in annoyance. He wasn’t quite sure they had time for this, seeing as the humans outside were frozen in the act of setting up their big head-cutting machine again. “Ask nicely? A demon?”

“You don’t have to say it in words if you don’t want to,” said Crowley, kyptic as ever.

What the hell was that supposed to mean, Aziraphale thought. “Don’t say it in–,” and suddenly, like any divine afflatus, the penny dropped. “Oh.”

Heat shot into his cheeks. Which was definitely a belated reaction to how cold it was outside in this dreadful season, not anything… else.

His eyes took in Crowley, involuntarily: the way he slouched against the stone, one leg propped up, the other stretched out, long and loose like he didn’t have a care in the world. He’d dressed himself modernly, as he was wont to do. Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice that his pants were very tight, hugging his calves and thighs and bunching over the rather large, well. The front.

“Well, I suppose I could, ahem.”

He cleared his throat and, instead of finishing the sentence, stepped up to Crowley. The chain dragged over the stone again, feeling distractingly heavy all of a sudden. He stopped before his feet could bump the demon’s and, with the fire and window now both behind them, he could finally see the shine of his slitted eyes.

The angel let his gaze drop from Crowley’s face to his chest, down the row of buttons, until it landed, once more, upon the bulge in his trousers. Tentatively, careful not to trip over his chain, Aziraphale lowered himself to his knees.

Crowley’s eyes followed him, like will-o-wisps in the dark. Waiting.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale placed a palm on the demon’s thigh, pushing it outwards a little.

That seemed to have more of an effect. Crowley sat up and brought his other leg down to the floor, on the other side of Aziraphale, so the angel could sit comfortably in between them. At least as comfortable as he could get on a rough, cold stone with the prospect of losing his head and having to explain it to his boss lurking at the back of his mind.

Aziraphale sighed softly and decided to put that problem out of his mind. He had something more pressing at hand. Literally. He slid his hands up from Crowley’s knees to his loins in an open-handed caress, and cupped the package that lay between.

The demon didn’t move. His hands were by his side, fingers curved against the stone, feigning a patience he didn’t usually display. Come to think of it, he also seemed uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

Well, Aziraphale wouldn’t push. It probably took a lot of energy to hold up a time-freeze like this, even if he’d only extended it to one quarter of Paris. Instead he focused his attention on the complicated fastenings of said trousers, nimbly slipping his fingers under buttons and laces until he could peel back the black fabric and the colorless underwear underneath.

Crowley’s cock rose from the folds, already half-hard.

Its usually pale coloring – Aziraphale had seen it in its natural state, back before Eve’s transgression made it too uncomfortable for anyone to walk around in the nude even _in a desert climate_ – was making way for a pink-ish flush that bled into the deeper, richer red of the swelling head.

“Look at you,” Aziraphale mumbled, as always a little touched somewhere deep inside at the fact that Crowley, of all people, allowed him to see him like this.

He reached a hand into the demon’s pants to pull him out completely, and resettled his balls a bit more comfortably.

A tiny shudder worked its way through Crowley’s body. His shoulders loosened and he sank a little further into the niche. His free hand found the one Aziraphale wasn’t currently using and curled around it, just holding him by the wrist.

Aziraphale looked up at him, pressing his thumb against the pulse point, feeling rather fond. He focused on that feeling when he leaned in, allowing his warm, moist breath to stroke Crowley’s cock.

It twitched, fully engorged now.

Feeling suddenly playful, Aziraphale flicked his tongue against the tip.

Crowley hissed. “Angel.”

“Shush,” Aziraphale replied affectionately and flattened his tongue against the wet spot his saliva had left.

The demon sucked in a harsh breath, but held completely still. Only the fine tremors running over his limbs he couldn’t stop; they translated through the fabric into Aziraphale’s palm, spurring him on.

He closed his lips around the head of Crowley’s cock, giving it a gentle suck.

Crowley jerked, his beautiful hips giving an aborted little roll. He stopped himself - probably because he didn’t want to choke Aziraphale and make a mess of his clothing.

The angel had no such qualms. As soon as he’d gotten accustomed to the girth of it on his tongue, he swallowed it down, relaxing his throat so he could take all of it, the entire length. Pride filled him when he managed it without gagging once, because Crowley’s cock was as long as the rest of him, and slightly curved to the left. But Aziraphale didn’t stop until he felt the tickle of the demon’s pubic hair against his nose, smelling his musk. He was clean, of course – he always was: his scent was never unpleasant, and since he didn’t use his cock for anything other than pleasure, there were no other, more accidental, scents to contend with.

Aziraphale breathed him in for a moment, feeling a strange, floaty feeling settle over him. This was really quite… nice.

He drew back and cast a glance up at Crowley. The demon had – when, Aziraphale had no idea – taken off his glasses and was staring down at him with wide, burning yellow eyes. “Angel,” he whispered when their gazes met, sounding strangled.

Aziraphale’s lips quirked. He slid off the demon’s cock until he only held the tip between his lips before swallowing him down again, delighting in the soft moan and twitch it brought him. He did it again, curling his free hand over Crowley’s hip, urging him to move, to partake.

Crowley took the suggestion and cautiously rolled his hips with Aziraphale’s next bob. Aziraphale let it happen, lips spit-wet. Drool ran down his chin.

It took them no time at all to find a rhythm together. Aziraphale tried to retain control for a while longer but quickly lost himself to the pure physicality of it – the blazing heat and force of Crowley’s cock, the salty taste of the first drops filling his mouth and the soft moans and grunts above him. It was all he could do to keep his teeth away from any sensitive skin as to not bring their little liaison to an untimely, painful end.

Crowley’s hand tightened around Aziraphale’s wrist. As did the other, which had somehow found its way into the angel’s hair without him noticing. The sting sent a bolt of pleasure through him, not because he liked the pain but because he knew what it meant.

The demon arched his back, taut as a bowstring above him. “Angel,” he gasped, head thrown back to expose the long line of his throat, and Aziraphale almost drew back to watch him but remembered, at the last second, that they probably shouldn’t leave evidence, so he didn’t.

More salty taste filled his mouth, this time with a lot more fluid of a different consistency than his own saliva. He swallowed as much as he could, getting it down quickly, before using his tongue to polish the rest off the demon’s cock, getting it nice and clean.

Aziraphale tucked him away into the folds of his trousers again, then drew back and used his sleeve to wipe the spit – and the rest of Crowley’s cum that had spilled out the corners of his mouth – off his face.

Crowley blinked owlishly at him and snapped his fingers. The chains rattled once, shackles springing open and clattering to the floor.

Aziraphale smiled gratefully, rising to his feet. “Well, I suppose I _should_ say Thank You. For the rescue.”

He held out a hand and pulled the demon to his feet also. They both set their clothes to rights – although for Aziraphale, there wasn’t much beside the suddenly extremely tight fabric around his crotch – and when he looked up, he found the hunger in Crowley’s eyes flaring bright like the sun. 

“My pleasure, angel.”


	2. Let the Walls Cover Their Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Frottage: in a grungy alleyway or filthy jail cell or tiny wooden closet, or literally anywhere your heart desires. Fully clothed, desperate frottage, silk rubbing against linen, the roughness of the wall behind them, the smell of their own skin... YOU know what to do <3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt on the Good Omens kink meme.

They make it through the front gate of the Bastille by virtue of their liberal outfits, a little bit of miracled inconspicuousness and the fact that people have been coming and going – mostly to their untimely end – for days.

Aziraphale takes care to follow closely behind Crowley for two reasons: first, because he seems to have the down-low on Paris, having been wriggling about the place for half a century by now; and second, because his taste is still clinging to the inside of Aziraphale's cheeks, which makes other parts of his anatomy rather unwilling to concede their case.

Since it's most unbecoming for anyone, least of all an angel of the Host, to be seen in such a state in public, and he can't just _make_ the problem go away – that memo is still burning at the back of his mind, curse you, Gabriel – Aziraphale has no choice but to use the unwitting demon to shield his front from view.

They step past the last pair of guards, onto a street that is filled with onlookers and smells rather strongly of piss.

Crowley takes his hand. "This way, angel."

They're barely two steps away from the door when someone shouts 'Hey!'

Behind them, three uniformed revolutionaries pour from the Bastille's entrance. "Stop these men!", the first one cries, jabbing his finger at them.

"Bollocks," hisses Crowley and breaks into a run.

Surprised, Aziraphale trips over his own feet and nearly sends them both crashing into the dirt. He catches himself at the last moment. "Crowley! What is going on?"

"I... might have broken a thing or two on my way in." The demon dodges a passerby and yanks Aziraphale into a side street, increasing his pace. "Run, angel!"

"I _am_ running," Aziraphale pants, air rasping harshly between his teeth. He didn't use to be out of breath this quickly, he thinks. He never really liked running, but there had been instances where he had engaged in it, either by choice or lack thereof.

"Could've fooled me, the way you're hobbling," Crowley gripes.

Aziraphale winces. But he doesn't have much choice in the matter. With every step he takes, his not-quite soft undergarments drag over his swollen cock, sending sparks of almost-pain-but-still-pleasure coursing through his body.

Another yank on the angel's shoulder sends them both stumbling into a cul-de-sac, but before Aziraphale can point that out, Crowley has jumped a stack of crates at the end and is making to climb into the closest open window.

"Up here!"

"My dear, is that really necess-"

"Yes, get moving, angel."

With a breathless sigh, Aziraphale places his foot on the crate. The fabric of his trousers draws taut, squeezing his cock.

Heat shoots into his cheek.

"Angel," Crowley urges. He's swung a leg into the room, and, straddling the windowsill, holds out his hand. "_Come on._"

Aziraphale shifts from foot to foot. The prospect of chafing himself raw is not appealing – but neither is being dragged back to the Bastille and finding himself in the same tasteless situation as before.

Biting his lip in determination, he hops onto the crate and allows Crowley to pull him up to the window. He's just about to climb into the room beyond when, with a decidedly serpentine hiss, the demon tightens his grip and lets himself fall backwards.

They flop to the floor. Aziraphale's fall is somewhat cushioned by the demon's body, but Crowley is nothing but skin and bones, and he would have cried out aloud were it not for the hand that suddenly covers his mouth.

Wide-eyed, Aziraphale stares at his companion.

Crowley curls an arm around his waist, gaze fixed on something behind them. "The guards," he mumbles.

"Mmpf," says Aziraphale.

"Stay still."

They're so close, Crowley's breath is ghosting along the shell of his ear with every word. Aziraphale is suddenly painfully aware of their positions – especially of how his hard, damp cock is pressed into the crease between the demon's thighs. The still-glowing embers in his belly flare to life.

"C-crowley," he tries to say, mortified, but the word is muffled against the demon's hand.

"They're almost here. Silent now," Crowley admonishes. He shifts a little, probably to find a more comfortable position in case they need to stay here for a while, inadvertently sliding his thigh between Aziraphale's.

The angel swallows a groan. His skin is prickling all over; heat gathering under his collar. He can't help but give a tiny, aborted twitch of his hips.

Crowley stiffens under him. "They're in the cul-de-sac. I can stop them from looking into the window but if you make a sound–"

Aziraphale rolls his hips and tears gather at the corners of his eyes at the sweet release it brings, like a pressure valve slowly being opened. Sweat gathers on his brow.

The demon's golden eyes widen. "You've got to be _kidding_ me."

"Mhmm," Aziraphale says into Crowley's hand, then opens his lips to lick his palm. The taste of street grime and dirt fills his mouth, with a hint of fat from roasted meat hiding in the creases between his fingers and the sweet tang of an orange he must have peeled and eaten earlier.

"This is really not the right time, angel."

Oh, boy, does Aziraphale know that. But the pulses of pleasure are stronger, chasing even the thought of rationality from his mind. Crowley is warm and solid underneath him, his arm heavy around Aziraphale's waist, anchoring him. And he just _saved_ him twice – an act so selfless it would rouse an angel on any given day, not just when he's the one being rescued.

There's nothing Aziraphale can do but clutch at the demon's coat and rock his hips against him in increasingly frantic jerks. He's panting as if he were still running, little moans spilling past his lips.

Somewhere behind them, the guard's lances rattle on the street. They're shouting – for what, the angel is too distracted to make out. Help, maybe, or information. The street was full of people, someone must have seen them. Their steps are coming closer.

His eyes fly open, meeting slitted yellow ones.

"Oh, so _now_ you noticed," Crowley comments dryly. He searches Aziraphale's face, mouth curling at the edges. "Have I left you so wound up that you need to assault me right here, in a house that isn't even yours?"

Aziraphale shudders, embarrassment burning on his cheeks.

Crowley takes his hand from the angel's mouth and slides it into his hair, leaving a trail of wetness on his forehead. "Do you want to finish this here?", he asks, all but purring. "Do you want me to make you cum?"

Words are beyond him. Aziraphale tries to shake his head – if he could grasp a clear thought, he'd probably be mortified – but he can't stop his pelvis from moving, seeking every sliver of contact he can manage. Crowley is so warm. How a cold-blooded reptile can be so warm, even in his human form, is beyond Aziraphale.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," says Crowley. "Gotta say, I'm flattered. All this from the taste of my cock... I'll need to suck myself some time, give it a try."

Aziraphale moans out loud, arching his back, the guards outside the window completely forgotten. He hopes they didn't hear. Wonders what they'd do if they did. If they'd come in, take a look.

Sparks trickle down his spine, lighting up his nerve-endings.

Crowley draws his leg up so he can put his foot flat on the floor to give himself more leverage. "How's it feel, angel? Good?"

Aziraphale can only groan and rub himself more insistently against the demon, riding his thigh. The pleasure in his lower belly is coiling tighter; his balls drawing up to his body.

"You're close, aren't you. This is really doing it for you, isn't it? The thought that those guards could burst in at any moment and find you like this; hungry and wanton like a," he smacks his lips. "Harlot."

Whimpering, Aziraphale hides his face against the demon's neck. His face is _on fire_.

"Come on, angel. Show me how much you need it. How grateful you'd be if I ripped your trousers down and took you right here on the floor," Crowley croons.

Aziraphale makes a strangled noise, thrusts growing frantic. It's almost painful to only have his own pre-cum ease the way, but he's too far gone to care. Crowley always seems to know exactly what to say, exactly how to touch him, to wring these sounds, these _reactions_, from him.

"You'd beg for it, wouldn't you? Like that night on the canal in back Venice." The demon's hand sneaks down between them, tugging the angel's shirt free. "You had a cunt back then; so slick and sweet, angel, I still dream about it."

His clever fingers tangle in Aziraphale's pubic hair. They're pressed too close for him to get anywhere, but the mere brush of skin on skin is enough.

"Can you picture it, Aziraphale? Our boat rocking on the waves, nothing but the moon to light our way."

Aziraphale shakes, feverish with need. He's so _close_.

Crowley bites at his neck. "Have I ever told you about the man who watched us, touching himself in the window?"

His orgasm _tears_ through Aziraphale. It rises like a flood tide; a broken damn, piling higher and higher until it breaks, crushing him underneath. His cock twitches, spurting into his trousers, surrounding him with his own slick body heat. For a blissful moment, everything is white and empty – and once that passes, there are Crowley's kisses, pressed softly against his temple, calming him.

Aziraphale drifts, just laying there, forgetting about time and space and everything that's not the rhythmic rise and fall of Crowley's coat buttons.

"They're gone," the demon says eventually, dispelling the last of the haze.

Slowly, with shaking knees, Aziraphale climbs to his feet and begins setting his clothes to rights. His coat is askew, that's easily enough to fix. His sweaty hair can be rubbed down. Making the rapidly spreading stain on his trousers disappear, on the other hand, will require nothing short of a miracle.

"Crowley, my dear, would you perhaps –?"

This time, Crowley – who looks more composed than anyone who just got laid on the floor has any right to – gets it immediately. His gaze drops to Aziraphale's pants and his lips curl. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"That," Crowley says, pointing rather rudely, "Is entirely your responsibility."

"But- but-" Aziraphale feels the color drain from his face. "I can't be seen out in the street like this!"

Another twitch of lips. "You should have thought about that before rubbing off on me, angel. But if it helps-" He steps into Aziraphale's space, leaning to whisper into his ear. "The mere thought of you walking around with your own seed soaking your underwear makes me want to do things to you that let the debauchery this country is famous for seem pale in comparison."

Aziraphale flushes. "Oh."

"Mhm," Crowley agrees. "And if you manage to make it all the way to my place, I might do some of those things to you."

"Well, uh." The angel tugs at his too-tight collar. "We better get going then."


End file.
